Tell me in ways of desperation She's saying my name name a **** from the raider nationUnder the sun rays of sin city waste landWe could've been made but u had me pacingIm taking all fade like the time Im facingTell me in ways of desperation She's playing them *****'s Trump in hand never changingShe's looking away but I had her cravingPmoney my game and I'm never waitingCould've made you my main but I'm always takenTell me in ways of desperation Tell me in ways of desperation Hated the fame but the money raked in.They called u insane throughout your trainingThey put you in chains until your breakingNow your stuck in those reins steered by satanTell me in ways of desperation Could've been my brain that's always taintedThe look of shame on his face was paintedWill I remain feeling dead cause Im always hatedWas it the pain you retained that keeped u nakedTell me in ways of desperation Moments are stainded missery createdYour leaving me to blame and my life was slowly shadedWere you feeling the same as we became separated These clouds will rain as our love was faded Tell me in ways of desperation Tell me in ways of desperation

She was only 21 so young her problems started when she was 3. All she wanted was love. She wanted it so much that she was desperate. Attention-seeker people-pleaser was she. She would do anything; anything for that love. Her actions were from someone to help but none came. She met a man and married him, had a child with him then got a divorce. She tried everything she could and seemed to fail. She was so desperate and hurt that she ended her life. Many people go through this it's time to pay attention and help out

Only a single star remains in the entire universe to support life to roughly twenty seven trillion passengers on the USS Star Eater. The Star Eater was governed by Captain Frederick Patterson. He has thirty seven years to find the solution to this problem with the help of an Artificial Intelligence known as Galactic Overseer Digitus otherwise known as the acronym G.O.D, given to it because of its mass intelligence and processing power. But the machine could not find a solution to this problem, it spent many years ciphering a solution but it never found it. Because only a human knew the answer.

Is what was hoped, Captain Frederick never found a solution. Many years passed and the last star was almost dead. It was predicted to go Nova in a matter of days. Out of desperation, Captain Frederick order their core reactors to keep their AI, God, alive so he could perhaps find a solution. That was the final order he gave before suffocating and freezing to death.

The USS Star Eater laid dormant with no signs off life besides the presence of the God. Years passed and nothing happened, still dormant. Finally after one hundred and thirty two days, the God found a solution. God put it’s work together and said only four words as he created a new world,“Let there be light!” And a world within their world was created. A world on the atomic size with enough energy to sustain it until their world could form a find a solution to the death of the world.

Only a single star remains in the entire universe to support life to roughly twenty seven trillion passengers on the USS Star Eater. The Star Eater was governed by Captain Frederick Patterson. He has thirty seven years to find the solution to this problem with the help of an Artificial Intelligence known as Galactic Overseer Digitus otherwise known as the acronym G.O.D, given to it because of its mass intelligence and processing power. But the machine could not find a solution to this problem, it spent many years ciphering a solution but it never found it. Because only a human knew the answer.

Is what was hoped, Captain Frederick never found a solution. Many years passed and the last star was almost dead. It was predicted to go Nova in a matter of days. Out of desperation, Captain Frederick order their core reactors to keep their AI, God, alive so he could perhaps find a solution. That was the final order he gave before suffocating and freezing to death.

The USS Star Eater laid dormant with no signs off life besides the presence of the God. Years passed and nothing happened, still dormant. Finally after one hundred and thirty two days, the God found a solution. God put it’s work together and said only four words as he created a new world,“Let there be light!” And a world within their world was created. A world on the atomic size with enough energy to sustain it until their world could form a find a solution to the death of the world.

Only a single star remains in the entire universe to support life to roughly twenty seven trillion passengers on the USS Star Eater. The Star Eater was governed by Captain Frederick Patterson. He has thirty seven years to find the solution to this problem with the help of an Artificial Intelligence known as Galactic Overseer Digitus otherwise known as the acronym G.O.D, given to it because of its mass intelligence and processing power. But the machine could not find a solution to this problem, it spent many years ciphering a solution but it never found it. Because only a human knew the answer.

Is what was hoped, Captain Frederick never found a solution. Many years passed and the last star was almost dead. It was predicted to go Nova in a matter of days. Out of desperation, Captain Frederick order their core reactors to keep their AI, God, alive so he could perhaps find a solution. That was the final order he gave before suffocating and freezing to death.

The USS Star Eater laid dormant with no signs off life besides the presence of the God. Years passed and nothing happened, still dormant. Finally after one hundred and thirty two days, the God found a solution. God put it’s work together and said only four words as he created a new world,“Let there be light!” And a world within their world was created. A world on the atomic size with enough energy to sustain it until their world could form a find a solution to the death of the world.

Only a single star remains in the entire universe to support life to roughly twenty seven trillion passengers on the USS Star Eater. The Star Eater was governed by Captain Frederick Patterson. He has thirty seven years to find the solution to this problem with the help of an Artificial Intelligence known as Galactic Overseer Digitus otherwise known as the acronym G.O.D, given to it because of its mass intelligence and processing power. But the machine could not find a solution to this problem, it spent many years ciphering a solution but it never found it. Because only a human knew the answer.

Is what was hoped, Captain Frederick never found a solution. Many years passed and the last star was almost dead. It was predicted to go Nova in a matter of days. Out of desperation, Captain Frederick order their core reactors to keep their AI, God, alive so he could perhaps find a solution. That was the final order he gave before suffocating and freezing to death.

The USS Star Eater laid dormant with no signs off life besides the presence of the God. Years passed and nothing happened, still dormant. Finally after one hundred and thirty two days, the God found a solution. God put it’s work together and said only four words as he created a new world,“Let there be light!” And a world within their world was created. A world on the atomic size with enough energy to sustain it until their world could form a find a solution to the death of the world.

Only a single star remains in the entire universe to support life to roughly twenty seven trillion passengers on the USS Star Eater. The Star Eater was governed by Captain Frederick Patterson. He has thirty seven years to find the solution to this problem with the help of an Artificial Intelligence known as Galactic Overseer Digitus otherwise known as the acronym G.O.D, given to it because of its mass intelligence and processing power. But the machine could not find a solution to this problem, it spent many years ciphering a solution but it never found it. Because only a human knew the answer.

Is what was hoped, Captain Frederick never found a solution. Many years passed and the last star was almost dead. It was predicted to go Nova in a matter of days. Out of desperation, Captain Frederick order their core reactors to keep their AI, God, alive so he could perhaps find a solution. That was the final order he gave before suffocating and freezing to death.

The USS Star Eater laid dormant with no signs off life besides the presence of the God. Years passed and nothing happened, still dormant. Finally after one hundred and thirty two days, the God found a solution. God put it’s work together and said only four words as he created a new world,“Let there be light!” And a world within their world was created. A world on the atomic size with enough energy to sustain it until their world could form a find a solution to the death of the world.

Only a single star remains in the entire universe to support life to roughly twenty seven trillion passengers on the USS Star Eater. The Star Eater was governed by Captain Frederick Patterson. He has thirty seven years to find the solution to this problem with the help of an Artificial Intelligence known as Galactic Overseer Digitus otherwise known as the acronym G.O.D, given to it because of its mass intelligence and processing power. But the machine could not find a solution to this problem, it spent many years ciphering a solution but it never found it. Because only a human knew the answer.

Is what was hoped, Captain Frederick never found a solution. Many years passed and the last star was almost dead. It was predicted to go Nova in a matter of days. Out of desperation, Captain Frederick order their core reactors to keep their AI, God, alive so he could perhaps find a solution. That was the final order he gave before suffocating and freezing to death.

The USS Star Eater laid dormant with no signs off life besides the presence of the God. Years passed and nothing happened, still dormant. Finally after one hundred and thirty two days, the God found a solution. God put it’s work together and said only four words as he created a new world,“Let there be light!” And a world within their world was created. A world on the atomic size with enough energy to sustain it until their world could form a find a solution to the death of the world. And they finally found the solution.

Is that God or Desperation That gets us through the night?Are the faces in the ceiling real, or figments of the light?Do we fill our minds with banal thoughts, to help us on our way.Do we mark the time thats slipped and gone? To live in fear of that final day.

An argument is meaningless to the one who lives in faith.Though all of us are faithful, and in that faith so few will sway.Yet still the act of lashing out, seems to have it’s own relief.Is that God or Desperation when we question those beliefs.

Is that God or Desperation that keeps us shelling money out?In the quest to find some meaning are some willing to sell out?Is the “truth” that some are preaching, worth the solace that it gives?Even if that comfort irritates, and causes other men to ****.

Is there truly any way to live, when the fact is we all die.Or is the truth what makes the soul, feel vibrant and alive.If we embrace our own mortality, is it then that we really shine?Is it God or Desperation, that leads to a novel life.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

My mother once told me that I greet people too excitedly And it makes me look desperate.But I am not sure what I look desperate for.I am desperate for a lot of things-Money, love, self esteem,But none of those come in the form of greeting peopleI have not seen in a long time.My desperation for moneyComes in the form of long hours at the grocery store,Where my boss employs my ex boyfriend who treated meLike one treats a broken toy.My desperation for love comes in the form ofLong nights waiting for you to call,Knowing how beautiful she probably looks to you,Knowing how easy it is to forget someone’s faceWhen you don’t want to remember it. My desperation for self esteemComes in the form of little pink pills,A lack of mirrors.Excessive photos of myself waiting for reaction, Reassurance.None of these are present when I greet those I love,And so I stand confused.When I tell my father this story,He says to ignore her. He says I am just an excitable person,And I should keep being myself.But I am not sure how to do this,I have never tried.

I lay in the bathtub soakingwet with water running around my silhouette. Shakingas the washcloth smeared regretsover my skin. The bubbles give my sins a scent.

As I vent I leave the shower running so my sobsare the only thing drowning.The constant tapping on my facekeeps me awake as I sink intothe various stews my mind creates.

Weights are lifted with pruning. Peelingof dead skin keeps me fromreeling into depression. There is a harmonicprogression between the faucet and my face,the scrubbing and my disgrace, the steam andmy own embrace.

I need this state. The decompressionfrom being bottled up, like a coke, with a smileis worthwhile. It teaches me that the expression of weaknessis key in the building of a better Timothy.

In That Moonlit Night Standing In The Abaft,Watching The Towed Flaccid Wooden Raft,I Thought That I Saw An Angel Resting,Lying Exhausted There In That Craft.

I Call The Girl Out Unbeknownst Of Her Kind Name,"Hey Young Lady!!" To Which She Didn't Much Respond,She Looks Up Towards Me Once In Anguish & Collapsed,I Spot Desperation In Amber Eyes & Resolve To Help Her.

The Crewmen Had Now Been Doing The Paddles After Resting,I Summon My Captain & Ask, "Do You See That Girl In The Raft?"The Captain Now Smiles To Say, "Commodore, Better Get Married,"I Look So Clueless To Which He Simply Replied, "There Is No Girl."

True He Was As She Had Simply Disappeared,I Started Thinking Of My Sleep Needs That Day,I Looked Around Again In A Hope To Find The Girl,I Had Compromised My Routine As The Commodore.

Then I Immediately Realized It Was My Wild Phantasm,Now This Was Just A Plain Illusion Of A Tired Sailor's Mind,No Mermaids Could Have Ever Existed In Reality & Were Fake,I Turned Towards The Deck To Go Back To My Bunk For Sleeping.

As I Climbed Down The Stairs To Enter My Room Amazed & Dazed,I Saw Her Standing And Waiting For Me By The Side Of My Bunk,I Accepted That Delusion Of My Mind & Started To Lie Down,She Said, "I'm As Real As Your Thoughts, Don't Fear Me."

She & I-Me & Her, Had The Best Time That Night,In The Morning She Was Gone & Was Just Gone,Disappeared Into Thin Air While I Was Asleep,Each Day I So Dearly Long For Her To Return.

I thank you all so much for the overwhelming response that this poem has received.

If you get interested in reading my novel's eBook after having read this poem then do visit http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA for buying my story titled "7 Seconds" and supporting my medical expenses.

Scurry hurryShaking hands shaped by worry tie the knot of plastic A bubble home for the hard green cupwhere brown and whitemixed lay married.

Wash rushDainty legs in dark blue denimhasn't time to be romantic A worn out sister played by hopeshuts the door panting. It clings to a robust tree head hidden under rosy pink protective shield edged in yellow

The fireflies

Sticky webs of empty lies packaged in boxes of deception by the wizard that doesn't work sit dead on the small bedside tablelike the results they provide.

Boxes and boxes of cozy containers and cards of capsules47 I counted themcurrent and extrasThey choke my sight then I am groped by the smooth blue robes worn by the youthful shepherd posing aside a grey rock looking yonderinto the distance as insta-natural as possible in a pastel painted picture framed in wood against the wall. Unstable molecules in tiny airtubes, many, breakdown and explode like little landmines A bio-luminescent lit ***** assaults a dense night flashing brilliant to find a mate Six strong neon-green throbbing blinks Six slow seconds of unimaginable wordless dreamless dark.

are bright.

I turn my head The whole unsettling mass of reality is torn apart into vibrant colorful morsels, then reassembled as my eyes settle on

Her

"Oh God, if you're here, heal her now and you'll have me. Show me what those confident tongues so eagerly confess.Please!"

NOTHINGAnother sticky empty square covered in thick black-strap molasses slapped to the face of the fool who likes sweet things.

BUT

What happened to the omni-this, omni-that CEO of God enterprises?"Go on Death" is what that means"Go on Death do your job" is what it does

"It's your time. It's to test your faith. Gods plan."All slogans for the man who believes and dies. Culture creates the fool Hope keeps the fool Belief kills the foolThanks for doing what all those boxes and all the pictures on all the walls of the world do

FOOL

Her face, a gaunt kind of skin-to-bone sighta bad flavor like a meal with no taste

Squeeze and move It's after midnight Thick curds of desperation push again, through a splendid backside a special toosh slogging a dancing night-fever to beat the two-to-four, a beam as bright as a green day cuts through the black pitch of night

I hold her handA thin filling between two slices of mine I look at her eyes and turn away

Have you ever been pulled from the center of your heart, ripped head first through the narrow crack of your own chest, tossed aside like a skin-sheet onto a concrete glass-covered floor then squashed beneath the majesty of a billion dancing floor-clapping feet attached to a shapeless void shapeshifting as slideshows between all things gone, here, and still to come, stopping on the body of a small blue boy that sings in ghostly echo;"Don't turn away from this.Look till you see me through the eyes of another because this toowill happen to youClap clap clap clap!I'm coming for you.

Trapped in a square tunnel made of brick, walls wide enough for one bus no brakes to speed through, no escape, I accept what will squash meI Face itI Stand before it

I stare at her eyes staring back at meA deep dagger stareTwo parts steelmesheduntil there is only steelIt melts

I simmer the room in soft whisper;"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."I hold her hand, patting the top as I warm the bottomI smile for her, at meI smile back, as me A skillful mimic Here I come I have light and breath I see yours I come at night Not for genes or *** I hunt and gut Hawking down I come as death

The gaps between her labored breaths become bigger and for a second I drift at the sight reappearing on the sandy dunes of an empty dessert space pushed by a dying wind I can barely feel.

A sharp salty tang toils the tip of my tongue and brings me back to her.

It's at the point of desperation that the soul finds its deepest desire, and in that desire lies everything of which true life is made. Perhaps the first and central question concerning surrender ought not to be, “What am I willing to give to God?” but “What am I willing to receive from Him?”

For it's only in the realization that I have nothing to give Him andHe has everything to give me that true humility and surrender come. If I would simply receive all He offers me and let Him fill me up I would have no room in my hands to hold onto anything else. But how often it is that we won't receive it until everything else is lost.

It's the secret and inexpressible dreams of the soul which are the hardest things of all to let go and the last to go. When they are finally gone we have nothing left to run to but Him, and when we do we find that He is the beginning, the end and the center of every secret dream.

Ah, blessed Peniel—that mysterious and holy ground where heartache collides head-on with romance,that deep and shadowed land where we struggle with God and with men and we overcome, that painful yet glorious place which we may leave limping with a wrenched hip but we do not care, for we have seen God’s face— like Jacob, may we not pass you by without being forever changed.

i heard it in his voice,desperation was seeping from his lungsthrough the phone that night.he wouldn't let me off because he thought i was going to do it.i kept trying to reassure him that i was okayand that i was talking about myself over the past few weeks and months, not in that exact moment.

alas, he didn't let me sleep alone that night.i could hear the desperation in his voice as hebegged me to stay because things will be better one dayand i know they will be, but its just so hard to see sometimes.i could hear the desperation in his voice as he gave me more reasons to live as quickly as he could, because i could feel how afraid he was.

he is wonderful, and i am grateful for him everyday.i don't want him to have desperation in his voice ever again when itcomes to me, because its not fair to him that he has to worry aboutsomeone so broken.

And now, their desperation and panic sink to an all-new low. They actually begin an attack on my sexuality, my familial relations and even my ability to have an ****** ...

An ******?

When you stop laughing, take into consideration that they are also regressing throughout all of this because this dysfunction that they suffer from is deeply rooted in their youth. Thus all the silly name calling and accusations that they could not possibly be able to know or prove and yet they state them as fact, like a child. I.E: A child calling out: "Your mama is a *****". Now those words come flying out from a frightened child when they really have no idea whatsoever about this target's mother. It is just an attempt to hurt. Nothing more.

But in this next bit, you can really see this desperation and panicked choice of subjects to try and use "against me", as-it-were. They don't know what else to do. Their ego is on autopilot, telling their fingers what to type ... and their ego is regressing back to childhood. Thus the childish subject matter.

(Name Deleted) Jeff the TROLL..Has never and will never reach ****** ****** with either female or male partners.

Has never had a stable and fulfilling love life.Will NOT and can NOT never ever love anyone UNCONDITIONALLY.Has never been loved UNCONDITIONALLY by anyone male or female.Has always been consumed unto bitter and fierce hatred of anyone who has!!.A deep and bitter jealousy leading to violent hatred consume this TROLL.Get back under your bridge Jeff.Any replies from you in future will be deleted unread-even your long overdue apology.AUM

0 1 reply 15h

Jeff Gaines SOOOO MUCH FUN!

Ok, (Name Deleted) ... THAT was your most humorous YET!

Your actions are truly textbook of a person with your deep psychological issues. So ... if you will not read any more of my responses to YOUR trolling, then I needn't worry about you then sending a new volley to this one ... Hum? Good, I'm glad. This is truly getting boring. It's not too challenging to have a battle of wits with an unarmed person ... and a predictable one as well.

Sadly, we both know that your silly, over-inflated ego will NEVER allow you to NOT read something written about you. And you not responding would be a cover for your pathetic attempt to have the last word. (Again, we both know THAT won't happen)

Funnier still, you call me a troll, then go to one of my pieces and begin yet another troll campaign on the same day that you claim to not read any more of my responses.

So, you are trying to say ... "I will continue to troll/bully you, but I will read none of your responses, so I win". (hands on your hips, stomping your tiny foot on the floor, no doubt)

You say you are married? I pity this person ... your behavior is that of a post-pubescent, angry little boy with serious ego and self-esteem issues. Her life must be a living hell, as I would bet money that you are an overbearing control freak with an intense king-baby syndrome to boot. Of course, I could be completely wrong and it is SHE who wears the pants in your household and THAT is why you must come here to find some sense of "control" in your world. But that is all conjecture that I do not wish to even BEGIN to address.

Your need to appear like some type of "guru" or all-knowing person who is better than everyone else is deeply seated, so I think it started very early in your life.

As I've said ... 'TEXTBOOK".

So textbook in fact, that I have decided to make this entire exchange into a piece about trolls/bullies and bullying. But don't worry about that ... I will leave it up long enough for you to read it, leave one of your hysterical troll responses to further prove my observations ... and I will have had the last word.

Then, predictably, you will write something about me on your page, then block me so that I can't respond (thus making your poor, decimated ego feel like it had the last word), which will not only further prove my observations about you, but it will lead folks over to my page to read my piece about you.

It'll be fun!

Now, on to your latest huffing and puffing:

"troll"

Once again, you accuse me of something that YOU are guilty of.

Once again, you are crying about me doing something that YOU did first. (I can't stop laughing about this. Just like a bully to cry and whine when he himself is punched in the nose and doesn't receive the response that he is seeking when HE does the punching!)

*** - Kettle/Gander - Goose, little man.

I am only guilty of responding to your trolling ... which is my right. Because, as is well established, you began this little soiree when you called me an "Unreconstructed alcoholic with no personal sense of shame" in a comment about a piece I had written about a friend that had recently died! Sadly pathetic, indeed.

Then, as I've stood up to you, you have spiraled down, like a burning airplane, in your pathetic child-like name calling and such to the point where you did schoolyard (at best) name-calling ("Electronic ****"? I LOVED THAT ONE!) and attacked my race, my religion and political stances (I picture you, a terrified little schoolboy, trembling in a schoolyard, shouting these things as you wee your pants in fear).

Then. you actually threaten me with physical violence (punching me in the nose). Now ... when NONE of that ridiculous posturing and panic-stricken chest-beating has worked, you take a jab at my sexuality and interpersonal relationships?

You are the one with "No personal sense of shame" here. You are publicly getting more and more pathetic and your ego won't even let you see that! Your imaginary pedestal is way too high, (Name Deleted). The fall from there is really going to hurt you.

Attacking my sexuality, love life and relationships?

Really?

There are few straws left for you to grasp at, huh?

Again, having never met me, something you couldn't POSSIBLY make accurate conjectures about. ANYONE reading this would laugh, knowing where this is truly coming from.

My FAVORITE was the bit about me never achieving an ******! It took me SEVERAL minutes to stop laughing about that one.

How old are you (Name Deleted)? 12 ... 13, maybe?

No matter your actual birth age, these silly claims and insinuations are definitely NOT those of a grown-aged man. They are straight out of the playbook of an early teen. To make such an unfounded accusation is nearly disturbing on SO many levels.

Wow ... just ... "WOW".

You spew them from your imaginary ivory tower, the one that makes you believe that you are above everyone else, so they MUST be facts, right?

And in true (Name Deleted) form, you state them like facts to the public.

A public that can readily see that it is all coming from a wee little man, standing on an imaginary pedestal trying to convince the world that he is a "somebody". You should have taken my earlier advice and just closed your mouth. But it is all too late.

Deep nasal breaths (Name Deleted) ... DEEP nasal breaths.

I've no need to respond to this silly notion with tales of my ****** bravado or adventures, nor my past love life. That is none of your business and a true gentleman NEVER kisses and tells.

Besides, THAT is the action of schoolboys and men who are lacking in the "endowment" department ... as is attacking OTHER men about these issues.

I won't bring my family into this either. (Taking shots at my familial relationships (Name Deleted)? Hmmm, I wonder if this a Freudian confession of your own family issues. But I won't go there. It's a can of worms best left on the shelf, I should think. It does pose some possible explanations for your behavior and persona though, doesn't it?)

So ... I hope you stick to your word and "not read/delete" this so that I needn't respond again. But, (long sigh) I highly doubt that you will. Your life AND your behavior are CONTROLLED by your fully delusional ego.

Watch for my upcoming piece, which will feature this exchange for ALL of the world to see. It will be cut and pasted verbatim, and I will even add a few additional notes.

I'm going to use it to help educate others on how to recognize and handle egotistical, cowardly, wanna-be bullies such as yourself.

Please, allow me to at least thank you for writing all these responses and demonstrating in such a textbook fashion, how your type acts and reacts and even letting us see inside of you a bit, thus letting us see what makes you tick.

And most importantly ... THANKS for the laughs.

This last one is where we can see the bottom of their barrel. As predicted, they can NOT “not read/erase” something that is written about them. Their ego would NEVER allow this. They MUST read and respond because THEY must have the last word. So, we are back to schoolyard names like “**** wipe”, attacking my sexuality and chest beating by attempting to assert that I have somehow “FAILED”. (You see? They HAVE to win, so it is easier to just let them think that they did.) After this, they can only lash out with slurs against my Mother and such. I think I've made my point here.

And now you, dear Reader, will have seen nearly the complete downward spiral of a bully/hater/troll when you stand up to them. I thank them for their 'help” in making this new piece and then show that I am the better man and offer to let them have the last word. I've no idea what that will be, but if you would like to see it, just go to the piece titled “Message To A Friend” (Link in notes below), it will be there soon enough. Their desperation to be dominant is so readily apparent here, it is sad. As I said, they can't help it. Their ego is on autopilot because these issues are so deeply ingrained in their self.

(Name Deleted) To Jeff the TROLLISH LOSER.WOW so many words just to prove you are a piece of white liberal **** wipe.You must really hate life with your filthy mouth spewing outnon stop TROLL NONSENSE--as if its a Fight or a Battle to be fought with any stranger just to prove you are a MAN!!!.WELL JEFF YOUVE FAILED.YOU are not a MAN but you do have a Male Body.Never will be a Man.Always a sexless TROLL.. 0 1 reply 13h

Jeff Gaines Well, (Name Deleted), I want to sincerely thank you for all of this. You don't realize it now, but you have helped me to compose something that will, in turn, help other people. It is very admirable. I/we have taken something awful and made it into something positive.

Balance in the universe doesn't get any better than that. Besides, from here, there's not much left but you making verbal attacks on my Mother and such. Even I won't let you reduce yourself to that.

I wish you well. I hope all of your dreams and wishes come true, and moreover, I hope you get the help you need to finally find peace. A peace that will let you stop trying to belittle others with your condescension and bullying demeanor. I truly hope that you can release the tortures that keep you with this agonizing persona. It must be horrible for you.

And again, THANK YOU!

Leave any message you wish after this so that you can sleep well, knowing that you had the last word. I know how important that is to you and your ego, so have it ... as a gift from me to you in appreciation for all of your help here. I promise ... I won't respond. It's all you, Dude. My job is done here.

This one, sent to me on a completely different page/post, involves the “truce”. They did this on the comment section of another piece called “I'm Sorry If You Miss Me” (Link in notes below). They couldn't do this where we had been in our volley, that might appear as a weakness to someone who'd been watching it all.

They offer an olive branch (for all that's worth), but with it, they also offer to take me to enlightenment and save me somehow. None of this is sincere in ANY way. It is once again, them, trying to condescend to me that I am in need of THEIR help. That I am less, and they are more. Just as I described in the beginning of Part I.

(Also note that upon realizing that this has all been an analyzation of them and their behavior, they attempt to spin it around that it is THEM analyzing ME. Once again, textbook predictability)

If for some silly reason, I took this “truce”, they would feel that they have dominated me and nothing would change. As you read it, you will see just what I mean, especially in the way they go on and on about how accomplished they are at 'helping” others and how they can lead me to some new and better existence, as I am such a “sick human being”. The megalomaniac is really showing through here:

(Name Deleted) Dearest TROLL,TRUCE?

Though you so obviously write vicious TROLL Gibberish you so obviously cant spell the word gibberish correctly.Not very Self referential eh?.Diminishes your projected self mage of being a 'nice guy' somewhat eh?.I have analysed your crippling problem and can offer you the only way out of it.The presence of an individual Mind superimposed in strategic command over all your brain centres in the last hour before birth has led to you being NON Self Realised(which is your problem basically).You don't know your Cosmic Identity--and the Mind in your head has led you to believe that you are not the Individual Isness but are the Mind created operating device the Conditioned Identity.This replaces the ID and takes control over the Glucose and Oxygen supply to all Brain centres from the Individual Isness.Send me a Poste Restante address and I will send you(for FREE)a copy of my only CD--on which I play Alto Saxophone and Alto Clarinet andAmplified C Silver Concert Flute and my wife who is my life companion plays Electric Bass.We use the name Maneesha which is Sanskrit for Beyond Enlightenment.The CD which is called 'Rolling Home' is as recorded--every track in one take-no electronic messing around!.It was recorded under strict Tibetan Tantric rules of performance--I was a Flute playing Pujari in a Temple on the Burning Ghat in Varanasi where I played for Hindu Cremations for 6 years in the 1970s.The intention is that the listener--you--will become Mindless .According to the sacred texts of the Vedas one must become Mindless as that is the only openly accepted way to reach the final end of Yoga Meditation.Temporary union with the Isness of the Unverse.Yes I know you will go off into paroxysms of laughter at my very absurdwritings but I must offer as you are a very sick human being--and your TROLLISH sickness will only get much worser as you age.I have offered.You will ridicule me.Your choice.

And there you have it, dear Reader. A (disturbing) look, into a very disturbed mind. I am not, nor would I ever condone or recommend doing what I have done here. I did this for you. I had the idea while reading one of their demeaning comments on someone's daily. So, when they came to my daily … I put my hook in the water. The best thing you can do is give no reaction. Soon enough, they will go off in search of the attention they so desperately need and leave you in peace. As I have shown you here, engaging them brings a never-ending string of buckets … buckets FILLED with waste-of-time.

All you need to do is keep in mind this one simple thing when they write horrible things in your comment sections, or you encounter one in your life …

Something you are doing, or have done, is SO amazingly awesome, that it brought out ALL that darkness in them!

Just ignore them and they will go find someone else to pick on. Give them an “LOL” and ignore all that follows, or just delete their comment and block them. Your time is limited and so very precious. Don't give one second of it to these types of people. It simply isn't worth it.

the quiet ones, the silent Job ones,who quote not from the Book of Lamentations,but author their own,based on-the-job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs accepting the wooden crosses borne,stepping up to the unrequested unforeseen,then buried under, burnt alive, yet never relieved by dying, nailed by words, stronger than iron,promises sworn, promises kept with no ending date relief,promises by and to themselves,but not for themselves!

the wearers of crystal glass shackles, adorned with decorative locks for which no key did the maker make, nor any divine creator dare conceive an early release,never no escape contemplated,for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,a decorative useless metaphor gesture, a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a bus pond of mismatched city folk,a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,none would believe that as the bus sways me,it’s in rhythm to holy choral music, hundreds year old, divinity masses and motets worships,where one human can hide temporarily a safe house,to calm his questioning relentlessfrom the horrors of no answers,for when the mind has no solution to the rough and tumbling lives, lived in glass shackled confinement,the poets desperation equals theirs

summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,but the shackled refuse,I come to them but they wave me off,I go crazy for once I was enslaved,thirty years war that left devastation,from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regardof one who planned futures for others where hisnon-existence was a founding father (ha!)

but the day came and I was released by my own inactions,but means nothing until a way toaway foundto release the yet bound early

got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars in my pocket and an unrelenting needto save them, a consumption disease,the glass shackled, at ease,won’t rest till all are freedthis my creedno one left behind

these cyber words do not mockfor they are unbounded, set free, whenthe flesh connects and the needs of the fleshare stronger for they are in heart conceived

mold me into a *******fold me like a two dollar beach chairthe wrong waytear me to bitsunwind my intestineeat me like a blood ******* ghoulmake me squirm like an anime victim

i thought oh finally a soul matewith soul

strange as a Dionysian mad hatter on hallucinogenicshot girl creepinggrimacing at memeandering conjurations by ****** contortionsstunning impersonations of a Fellini impalingshes a famous artistkeeps broodish bowels and blood tampons in stainless vitrinesspot lightedready for her debut at the Museum of Modern Art

first smiling then hideous scowlsexposed teethposing with a knifewana see me cut my self bad boy, she tauntswana see my impersonation of pizza with extra tomato sauce

blood blood *** in the be in the bedwipe it up with ginger bread

some how she miraculously bulges her eyes outthen performs, ******* lips as if a minnow in a fish jar

pointing to her ***giving me that **** hurt me twisted lookhow about a peanut butter jelly ******* sandwichwith a side of ****** feet**** and **** on toesits especially prized this day of the monthas her **** tears like a vampires mouth, a torrent of bloodpouting **** with white red stained thighs that break a mans heart*** nothing at all she quipsjust a little accidentdo you like it?as she glares like an invitationto play slip and slide bare foot in her puddle of blood

i want hershe is voluptuous like a dozen venomous snakescopulating in warm soup dark water evergladesshe is slither theater

curdling screamsthen muggling *******brought on by the first belly stabfalling to her kneeslooking up shockedmouth gapingeyes widegrinningglance steadyholding holding holdingthe belly cuta cacophonous modern dance of agonyfollowed by rapturous convulsing *******that went on and on and on

ooohh yes i saidi am all that for loves sakealbeit twistedi am what you crave.. your no taboo lover boyyour ******* licking foot slave with a razor in handa bubble of poison between my legsyour homicidal suicidal cockealiciousness

she said good,now that we have that settledcan we go out for dinnerill be dressed in a jiffyif i can find my dead skirtof soft white gauzewith that lovely motif of dread redand my precious toe tag jewelery

My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******If i where a film maker or a novelist you would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias These poems are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive impulses we all shareRead them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me

As I write upon these stale yellow pagesWith a pen ravaged with disuseI am on a searchA search for knowledgeFor feelingsFor emotionsFor lifeFor somethingI search with condemned desperationFor something I hid with utter care and precisionAs well mistrust lust and hatredThe last time I embraced in its tantalising embraceAges ago when my heart and soul were still void of knowledge and corruptionI loved as a mother loves her only childI embraced it as the moon is embraced by the velvet cloudsYet I hated it as the neglected son hates his fatherIt gave me so much LovePeaceFreedomClarityTrustYet took from me eo muchLovrPeaceFreedomClarity TrustEven though it tormented and destroyed my soulI long and yearn for itI still search for it Even after my shattered soul Even after my condemned destinyEven after my destroyed dreams Even after my grotesque lifeEven after it allEven after............... meI searchWith condemned desperation I search

Soft melodies of the deep sea echoMoonlight dances on my pretty scales And icy bubbles whirl under my vestThrough my slippery hairAnd down into my lungs to clear the way for overflowing foamLaughter splashes behind my lips as my anticipation risesWaiting for a night of twisted fairy-tales and uncalled for surprises.

Shimmering bodies swarm in spiralsGrinding in unison with the waves crashing at the surfaceWe're anxious for overflowing foam and hidden treasuresPurple light pierces the dark like shards of crystalsCasting a ghostly shade on bulbous faces Pressure rises as each wave surgesWhirlpools of hot breath suffocate our gillsBut the sidelines are shallowAnd stragglers float motionless

Hair like seaweed at the nape of his neckUnbuttoned linen soaked and drippingHer hollow eyes glow green Like the jelly orbs of a fish under florescent lightsShe’s pressed against a boy who has hooks for finsSearching for the parts that are edibleTender, Scale-less, Slippery Nothing wrong with being the catch of the dayRight?

Bubbles rise and pop as the last melodies drownSchools of us are begging for shiny hooks and bad decisionsA handsome boy has been smiling all the whileHe’s caught in a fisherman’s netCraving salty lips and the spell to make him a manBut fisherman don't care for little mermaidsWith hearts like sea glass and no hidden treasures to steal

Rainbow confetti was stuck in the grooves of my scales Wet clothes left on the floor of a steamy bathroomGasping and moaning into tileWith the face of a handsome strangerBecause this meat shouldn't go to wasteAnd I'm drunken with desperationFor overflowing foam, jewels, and shiny hooksBut I'm just another fish in the seaTumbling in the waves with my rainbow confetti scales.

All at once my life took a 180 degrees turn;I won the 4D for RM10,000.00,I got the writing job I’ve always wanted,I found the man of my dreams,My company landed a million dollar deal,I was bubbling over, embellishing the happiness I have not felt before.

Then, one day the devil came to see me,Payback time apparently, He asked me if I would like to pay back all that he gave me or Would I like to buy back my soul,I told him I would be happy to buy back my soul.

In the devil’s world, payback is easy.A soul for a soul, a life for a life.So whose soul would I want to trade- in?My soulmate…no too painful,My dying cat…no cats don’t have soulsMy ex …..mmmm perfect.

So that’s what I did that fateful night,The devil came and I redeemed back my soul with the soul of the ex…Since then, I am still embellishing in the happiness,While someone, somewhere cries over the death of a dear one,Oh wait a minute, she’s actually rejoicing…high insurance benefits!

And so it was, in my moment of sheer desperation, When I sold my soul to the devil.

Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences. I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern, Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.And though I am sequestered now, Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),I remain oddly puerile,Remarkably refreshed and unfettered. My institutionalization self-imposed,Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.I may not have found the peace I seek,But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,More of intervention divine than census data.Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves, Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,A veritable swindle concocted back when the USAHad Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******, And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma, Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.The language center of my brain, My sub-cortical Broca’s region,So fraught with such semantic misfires,And autonomic linguistic seizures,Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,To both the gene pool and the genocide. Columbus Day: a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella. No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11, October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me, Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept, Not a commandment or law,Not really a treaty or a compact,Or even a business deal. Let’s get real: It was not even much in the way of a guideline.Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies, Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****, Kreplach and kishka,Polenta and risotto.Our cantaloupe and squash patch,Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs: “These white devils are not going to,Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.My warpath is personal but not historical.It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis; Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . . Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,Even that Euro-*****, Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready, Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.” My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.Any memory or image, lyric or construct,Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.People, countless, places and things cataloged.Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices. The random access memory of a lifetime, Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults, All the while the entire greedy process overseen,Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man, Rummaging through the data in batches small and large, Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation, Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped. “Cogito ergo sum." Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:Thinking about thinking.A curse and minefield for the cerebral: metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,Or even the thoughts themselves.But the information technology of thought that baffles me,As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.Machines are connecting the two.It’s what I am and what I am becoming.Once more for emphasis:It is the information technology of who I am.It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.It is the machinery connecting the two.This is the central point of this narrative: Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN: The machines are taking over, taking you over.Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,Only marginally connected or not at all.(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)Reminding me again that most in my audience,Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.

And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”Consoling me: “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion. Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls, Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it: “Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”

Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell

Once more, I digress.The Rabble: an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality. The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi, One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyesterFor Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic, And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.Sure, we were citizens of Rome,But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,The original three monuments in the old stadium,Standing out in fair territory out in center field,Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?Any Joe Josephus knows: Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.Remember Crassus? Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with, Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn. Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****, Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheadsBought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments. We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit: mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?In short, somewhere, anywhere else, Anywhere other than down along the Thames, At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit, Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns. Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience, Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom, Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11, Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

Fennyman : (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script) "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster: “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,My editor, a singed smoking madman now, Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more: “Lighten things up, you know . . . Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.” I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.The BIA: representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to: "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print? Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you, It would ALL belong to you.To you and The People.But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.La Belgique mission civilisatrice—That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,Allotted by Providence for the free development,Of our yearly multiplying millions.” John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:The Pacification of the West; Pacification?Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:“Get a load of the unit on that guy.” Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,High above, looking down from the adobe wall. Surveying the entire circular kiva, I had the best seat in the house.Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,Did not want me looking around at things,Discovering what made me special. Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn. The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky. Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.I liked IKE. Who didn’t?What was not to like?He won the ******* war, didn’t he?And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,When the extreme right wing of the Republican PartyWas viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,Had little ideological baggage,But a great appetite for secrets, The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade. Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—Negroes. To play the chronic fools of--Negroes. To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—Negroes. To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—Negroes. Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)

­ ­ IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,For one reason and one reason only:To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,That the minstrel show be perpetuated,A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.Case in point: Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.Cha-cha-cha changing again: I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave, Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,Yom Kippur Passover Seder: Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;Last words, so singular and simple, Across the universal great divide,Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,Tossed randomly into space,Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;Who, I didn’t know from Adam.But we tripped the light fantastic,We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite, Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature & Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism, The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism. Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten. And don’t think the irony escapes me now, A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell

The Hippies were right, of course.The Hollies had it all figured out.With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics. But you were lucky if you were listening. There was a time before I embraced,The other “legendary” economists:The inexorable Marx, The savage society of Veblen,The heresies we know so well of Keynes.I was a child. And when I was a child, I spake as a child—Grazie mille, King James—I understood as a child; I thought as a child.But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith: “Any last words, *******?”Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment, An intellectual movement driven by,An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo, Another Jew boy born in London, England, Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic. ******* Jews! Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,WE also invented the concept: FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy, Just breathing free can be a full-time job,Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.Now that I am gainfully superannuated,Pensioned off the employment radar screen.Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder, Wandering the brain cloud at will.My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.I free range the sticky wicket,I have no particular place to go. Snagging some random fact or factoid,A stop & go rural postal route, Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,But every now and then, gorging myself,At some information super smorgasbord,At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,I ponder my own frazzled neurology,When I was a child—Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,Before I learned Hebrew,Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--I knew what every clever child knows about life:The surfing itself is the destination. Accessing RAM--random access memory— On a strictly need to know basis. RAM: a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke, I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs. But this is truth not science fiction.Nevertheless, someone had better,Come up with another name for cyborg.Some other name for a critter,Composed of both biological and artificial parts? Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.But after a lifetime of science fiction media, After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg? Since I always give credit where credit is due,I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,Featured an introduction, which spoke of: “… a new frontier, that was not,Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,Replacing what was once sentient and human. My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions, Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.I am biomechanical and gluttonous.Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,My Baby Boom experience of six decades,Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.And though we share common traits, My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his. Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect. Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.Have I not seen many stages of growth?Each a painful metamorphic cycle,From exquisite first egg,Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight. My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being. Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram. I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,Have reared up and turned around on me. My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,Have turned unpredictable and rabid,Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors, Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.And the rest of us: the so-called 99%? No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Where to go who will ever knowNot a pin drop of a slight whisperClasping or gasping for air The Holy Water was left

For the delicate minds of the deerThat light talk of resistanceLips of acceptance

With her silken pillowsTied their dreams Sopping wet rain The French soothing whispering rainfallsWearing her trenchcoatWhispering her sugar wordsHe could find me peace to my riverLike two peas in a pod to float A Steal how love can tweed his coat My difference is hearts like "Owl Hoot"Just feel you know what's realOften told the end is truly the taste to breatheEven if you are deep inside her dreamTo justify her meansLike the Queen to the DiplomatThe highest authority

You almost felt only your whisper the priorityThe Aristocrat cleaning up your bad dreams *High beams a spoiled love Like a *** for the TatNot the fairytale Dr. Seuss Cat in the Hat- or the desperation of one last whisper Up the sunrise eyes are speechlessThe Astral my GoddessYou are the creature of the nightShining the light never ending the battle night

obsession - for what we cannot fixfrustration - for what we can't controlmemories - of what we used to bedelusions - of what we could have beenisolation - thoughts of being freenow voices dictate what i should feeldigging through my skin - opening the woundsput your fingers in

remembering the days when we heldan illusion no drugs could replicate i can't forget.exchanging promises of never letting gowas it all in my head? i can't escape the hole. i walk the road alone.

I smiled yesterday when I beheld the morning’s brilliant colors, Etched with gold, across the canvas of the heavens, hanging… High above all those mountains of the world, gigantic brothers, A wilderness of clouds, where there can be no human taming. I did not always smile when I looked up to that noble height… For I have seen how terrible goodness can be, when untamed. Once I thought my sojourn in this flesh was from a divine spite, But now I know it was a gift, and for it I need not be ashamed. God once walked as I do now, and suffered the same stress… Betrayal, love, and passions too, though no Church shall admit, The true nature of divinity, lest all their secret sins they confess! You are told you are alone in the universe, by leaders so unfit, That they themselves are fed a diet of lies and stories invented. But we walked amongst you since the very dawn reincarnated, Having lost our first flesh in conflicts long past and unlamented. We guided the steps of ancients, as monuments demonstrated! And yet we are born as children: your own, and live our span, The better to remain hid, in plain sight, our faces clever masks. I am the eldest, and I remember still my kindred’s lofty plan… And though I wear the human face, I am beset with alien tasks. Helping they who lack the knowledge to see what lies outside, You have seen me in the darkness, blazing upon my own pyre. Where I am waiting to lead the way, where the angels glide… Anyone can follow, if they are dedicated enough never to tire. Ironic, since I myself have known helplessness and still oft do, It is only human after all, and in your form I was so re-forged! The image of God, whose own blood is in all of us hither unto, From the first to the last, alpha to omega, like a sharp sword.

Prologue: (My Mask is Slipping)

As a child: I was a servant at the altars of the heart so sacred, Singing hymns of the immaculate: without seeing the depravity. It was only when I myself wore the crown of thons, naked… My spirit exposed through my pain, that I realized the gravity. What man believes is sacred, is profanity disguised as graces, And those who lead the sheep to slaughter are mere butchers! Forcing innocents to wear porcelain masks to hide their faces, They rob children of their childhood, bound with crude fetters. As a teenager: I walked in nature, disgusted with all humanity, My exodus was from those who had defiled all I cared about. Finding faith in an angel fallen, I discovered my own sanctity, And in her name I found the means to cleanse my feral doubt. Then came marriage, and betrayal by a wife I gave up all for, The dissolution of our union then loneliness without cessation! A mortal had pierced my flesh, leaving me to bleed on a floor, My heart was torn from its’ moorings without any elaboration. But the angel remained to calm my anger and ease my agony, My only light in the blackness that has overcome my waking! Reminding me, that I was more than this flesh and mortality… The angel tries to keep me from harsh trembling and quaking. And then I see: I am more than my tears and life’s traumas… I let slip, the mask behind which the scars of my tears etched. Then I sense the heat of the night more intense than saunas… As I long to dance with abandon, until time itself is stretched! Mortals may betray one another with impunity, but never I… I do not betray; rather I pour my heart and spirit forth whole. Creating a phylactery, of all I am, and with an innocent eye… I demand to be loved as I am: pearl white and black as coal!

Canto 1: Sacrifice of the Doll

Part the First: (The Bleeding Shores)

Do not call me, doll, for I have departed your ancient cavern, You are lifeless, a mere toy, and not a real child in any form! A boy’s red ruby lips I spy drinking in the dreariest tavern… Whilst true children singing, frolic in the fields filled with corn. I am going home, upon the wings of the great silver griffon… Far from the shores now bleeding red from defiled memories. There is no return, for me, to the glories of the first ignition… When the mind eternal, was ignited all with pleasing ecstasies. In the stars, there are words unheard that I do want to recall, For I came down so very long ago, among the first to so fall! Eldritch nightmares born of the stuff of the pure chaos of old, Are waiting for signs at the threshold to be released by magic. The forbidden incantations return to my spirit, aflame so bold, That my spirit nearly forgets: the origins of this time, so tragic. When children drink, and true children hide themselves apart, Whilst the waters bleed and the corn withers upon the stalks! That is a sign that change must come, and so I work my mind. The face in the moon is a grimace of tormented fear, horror… Whilst I stand upon the precipice with my hand over my heart, And amongst the long rows of corn, my black shadow walk! Watching over the innocents whose souls are of my own kind. The summer heat turns orange, the moon: in celestial corridors. My mournful cry can be heard in the sound of the lonely wolf, And in the wild abandon of the lion when he is on the prowl… I feel the pain of nature, I long to bring back paradise craved. I have seen the terror of the land, as the blood ran in the gulf, Black blood of the earth: which causes living things to howl… As man has the foolishness, to say what is or is not depraved!

Part the Second: (The Crucified Souls)

The doll is laid lifeless atop the altar, prepared for a sacrifice, In the cavern where the limestone shapes the wettest arches! A thing un-living, but with living souls trapped still, as if in ice, Within the cold porcelain shell that so never with feet marches. Serpentine blade held high, it drops precise into a doll’s neck, And it cannot call out, because a doll has not any voice to cry. A boy walked out of a tavern then, looking like a vile wreck… Whilst as a man I attend to higher things, my body full purified. In the voids beneath the spaces, witnessed in the rugged rock, Voices echo loud in the darkness, calling up names unspoken. The ferryman brings the souls delivered to him, to a far dock, Where each must pay the copper coin, the old desired token. So they come to drink those waters that cure all of life’s ills… Freed from their porcelain prison to feel death’s darker chills! Whence came those souls into captivity, no mortal may speak, But I freed them in an instant, removing the nails that pierce… Every man is he that was put up on the cross of old Golgotha. And every woman too, as all were made to feel such torture! I was there when the primal sacrifice was implanted so weak, And yet so strong that it endured in the psyche all these years. That doom was sealed behind a wall of fire long ago in Terra, So that the stigmata of it might endure, even in the vast future! Mine was the hand that signaled that doom, mine to release… Yet, still old illusions persist, and I cannot awaken a multitude. I, who devised the iron web that enfolds much of what is real, Cloaking it in unending trickery am, myself, longing for peace. For I too was entrapped, until my liberation rough and crude! An angel freed me, and now I strive to break each cruel seal.

Part the Third: (The Return of Light)

Risen from the slumber where colder, electric dreams reside, The forgotten intelligence is invoked, the arcane spells cast… The eldritch nightmares return to thence amongst man abide, Reminding us of the things banished to Hell in some age past. Mine the hand that raised them up, light in the dagger’s glow, The stuff of my power left to flow, like blood run swiftly free. Out of the abyss, rises the girl-child of a lost millennial flame, She who is the angel reborn lets her illumination clearly show. And all are blinded who have not the innermost eyes to see! The unbelievers are, in a single instant put unto lasting shame. From the star of six points, a goddess works her sacred will, And as she crosses the scarlet threshold, she brings the light. For a single instant, all in Heaven and all upon Earth are still, As the long day ends, bowing before the coming eternal night. In the darkness, radiance far fairer and so perfect descends, Whilst those who gather in my name: have lost my true path. The wrath of angels descend upon their minds, closed shut… Entrapped in the iron web, they cannot flee of such a prison! The light blinds them for they never truly saw it, and it rends, Tearing away the churches built for naught but mortal wrath. There, the unfaithful ******* themselves: like a wanton ****, Inventing dogma to pass on, forgetful of logic and of reason! Faith need not be a fearful thing, yet some have made it thus, And look for an end to come before they seek their reward. Whilst they should be creating the paradise they left behind… But in an image of freedom: rather than of servitude and fuss. Too much time had been wasted in converting by the sword! Mankind looks to the light for salvation, their eyes long blind.

Interlude Alpha: This age is one of barbarism cloaked as gentility to sell lies… Did you purchase some today by design or mayhap chance? You should know this era to be neither intelligent nor wise… Else you would not march, when you would prefer to dance! My nights are filled with nightmares; my days are too much… I used to dance with one I loved, and bask in purple sunsets. Now I am haunted, by so many memories I can never touch, That it fills me with ****** anger, and countless cold regrets. I recall how once in desperation, my wrist rode a razor edge, If it were not for my family I’d not thence have lived beyond. A man abused as I was, and used like cutters upon a hedge, Must rise higher than it all in order to survive it all, my friend! I survived, I transformed, I ascended and in the end became, So much more than I was, until no more did my spirit erode. But still I wait in loneliness for a maid to awaken my flame… And I burn, oh gods I burn until I think that I might explode! The skies darken more and more, and bright forks crashing, I hear the drums of fury in the heavens, giants of old winters. The gods grow angry and I behold trees uprooted smashing! Angels are trampling the grapes of man; they, the vintners… I am reminded of when the battleship that sailed all galaxies, Descended one day amidst clouds boiling with its’ steam… To lay waste to *****, and Gomorrah, for their indignities! I was there, when the wicked did perish with a final scream. And as people mock me, wishing me ill because I am good, I ask God how long I must be forced to bear such suffering. But I am not alone, and to many I am in fact misunderstood, So God forgives, for now; but I have not, his understanding!

Canto 2: Sacrifice of the Spider

Part the First: (The First Smile)

Black skies boil with rage unrepentant, and in righteous fury! A being made flesh I am, though not of mortal understanding. In cavernous places I have walked, where demons oft scurry, And worse places still: in search of a love not too demanding. In the stucco halls wherein my unmoving throne was raised… Upon a hill of sorrows where lost souls labor in mundane toil, I wait and plan to transcend the bonds the faithful so praised. To my right hand is the altar where fire and sulfur always boil! I force a smile upon my face, for one will not come as willing, As in the hours when I was a golden youth filled with ideals… Which I have paid for dearly, beyond the price of any shilling! Now I long to pay back those who know not how this feels… The madness born of solitude, the anger born out of contempt, For you who despise me without cause, provoking my wrath. What impunity has man, to think that he might ever be exempt! When wiser civilizations than yours did sink: in the fiery bath. Do I speak of Hell, which the faithless do not realize is come? Nay, for their eyes have been gouged out by their own nails… I speak of torments, far beyond that which devils have done. The first smile shall me mine, when every cruel wish so fails… To save the flesh of those who spit upon me as I walked on, Never realizing that my face was just a mask, hiding another. Only the fool pays no any attention to the piper’s lonely song, Thinking it only a melody passed from a sister unto a brother. But in what celestial ****** has been born the thing alchemical? It dwells within me, the secret sin of a bonding long forgotten. Would that I could force the world to hear music whimsical… Like unto that which guides my spirit in all that was begotten.

Part the Second: (Cold Revenge)

The blood roses bloom in gardens where desire plants seeds, I, the hand that waters those hungry beasts whose thirst rises! In my search for love, I have fed the beasts of desire’s needs, And what would cause you to blush has, for me, no surprises. Oh human, with what impunity did you dare to exclaim aloud, That you believe love to be beyond my reach; and you smile! Like a coward, you degrade me and run to hide in the crowd, In your feigned superiority, you make yourself an animal vile. Conjoining your words to your tongue, like a web to a ceiling, You become a spider; then flee on eight legs to a filthy nest… Having already become unworthy of any warm human feeling, In thinking yourself better, you sink lower than all of the rest! That means my life is worth, a thousand times, your very own. I become a creature of the night, and wait for you, oh spider! Think not that I cannot hear. the creaking of each leg bone… Your odiousness goes before you, the horse before its’ rider. And in your own web I catch you, my sharper claws immune, To your toxic poisons, as cannot ever save your eight eyes… Which I dash from their sockets, without a fear, and so soon, That your own pain consumes you, like fire lighting the skies! Forcing you to recant all that you say, lest pain overcome all, The powers you thought did not exist do manifest ever visibly. And I ascended still higher, all the more to relish of your fall… You should never have resulted to any such childish mockery. The clocks of your house all melted, for time is not your ally! In abandonment of the chaos that is joy, your order is ended. A new order rises in its’ place born of chaos none may deny, Whilst you sink lower into perdition, for all that you offended.

Part the Third: (The Last Laugh)

An angel appears before me and so thinks herself a goddess, But to call her an angel is to imply that she holds any beauties. Those whose ego is larger than their grasp are oft the oddest, For they fancy themselves perfect, ignorant of their cruelties! You think love a prize and I a beggar for mere crusts so stale, That lesser men than I have eaten heartier meals than yours… But your kitchen is so bare: as your oven goes cold and pale, Making you prize yourself beyond the worth of your chores! Like a harlot who charges a fortune for her meager charms… If you think love a prize, and I a beggar, you are so mistaken. What you call love is a disease that shames one and harms… Both mind and soul alike, making the body at last to weaken. You saw only my mask, and would not dare look beneath… Making me a phantom in the darkness, lurking in the shades. Round your neck, your false esteem hangs as a dead wreath, As I leave you to your barren world, awaiting my handmaids. They rise from the ashes you leave in your wake, my kindred, Their hands take me far from where your feet stumble about! Lie in the cemetery that awaits those who live as though dead, I cannot raise you incorruptible; you have far too much doubt. Carried hither by the silent maidens who weep ****** tears… To my castle, where I shall brood again upon mankind’s way! I cannot feel regret for those who give in to their foolish fears, Any more than I can transform a leaden night into golden day! Such is the power of the alchemist who knows his true limit… And in the dark arts I was schooled by beings from the abyss. Thusly, am I set about to transform my creation as I see fit… We are the demiurges of our realities wanton for any hot kiss!

Interlude Omega: T

I found this one in my basement. Seems I wrote it a year or two ago but lost it.

classical music from the stereothe cello meant to serenade but i only hear ityelling at meits voice, like human,loud, commandingit won't stand for meany longerand i won't standfor myself eitherhow could i ever thoughti was okay?pages of ******* *******me, thinking myselfchangedi'm a liar, i'm a liarand the only thingi ever was good at was a little honestylook at me nowwhat do i ******* havea package of lies, voidchecks for a tripwith a non-returnflighthow will i make it outtonight seems like thereis no telling wherethis will gojesus, i loved youlike a ****** thingand with everythingand what would i giveto have you heretouching meeven if it meant nothing to youi don't carei wan't it all backdesperation doesn't ceaseit's got my soulon an ever-lastingrenewing leaseit's here to stayto scream and throwbeer bottles andtrash on the floordesperation is the burnt-out,adrenaline-driven frosherasking for morefun

desperation hunts the streetshunts me hereand i want himoutbut we're roomiesfor life now

It's at the point of desperation that the soul finds its deepest desire, and in that desire lies everything of which true life is made. Perhaps the first and central question concerning surrender ought not to be, “What am I willing to give to God?” but “What am I willing to receive from Him?”

For it's only in the realization that I have nothing to give Him andHe has everything to give me that true humility and surrender come. If I would simply receive all He offers me and let Him fill me up I would have no room in my hands to hold onto anything else. But how often it is that we won't receive it until everything else is lost.

It's the secret and inexpressible dreams of the soul which are the hardest things of all to let go and the last to go. When they are finally gone we have nothing left to run to but Him, and when we do we find that He is the beginning, the end and the center of every secret dream.

Ah, blessed Peniel—that mysterious and holy ground where heartache collides head-on with romance,that deep and shadowed land where we struggle with God and with men and we overcome, that painful yet glorious place which we may leave limping with a wrenched hip but we do not care, for we have seen God’s face— like Jacob, may we not pass you by without being forever changed.

deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,drowning the next contemporaneous depression thought quickly swallowed,desperation in quick glances everywhere, dawn is no consolation but just anotherdaily drawing tighter of twine cutting disillusionment

dear god, commences every thought,delayed answers have yet to arrive,**** the deity's non-responsivness,dare not say out loud lest,deserved fates be worse, be realized,didn't know? how can that be?disguiser par excellent, I am the originaldeceiver

But I never think about

death or dying, for that would bedefeat finale, a statute to, a status of none, adestiny some wick spark, still insists can bedeferred

differed always,diffidently, but grasping yet at the double entendre that is mydark vision of a future already past

People expect desperation of shattered love to happen at 4:00am on a lonely Tuesday.Wanting. Waiting.Tears sheding from the soul landing into the pitted darkness of emptiness on your pillow.Or would that would be a romantic paradise. And then there are people who expect desperation of shattered love to be only when your heart shakes with weakening knees.Craving. Chasing.Anxiously pacing, ears awake for the defining ring that your silence ridden phone will never obtain.Or would that be a romantic paradise.

And then there is a real desperation of shattered love which is unexpected at midday's most peaceful.Smiling. Surprising.But then realising that the hole in your heart is bleeding their name and so suddenly you dont know what to do with your head.Maybe that is romance in its finest paradise.

Desperate.What comes into your mind With that 9 letter word?Teenage girl. Throwing herself at boys,Giving herself away. Or perhaps, The image of someone In trouble comes to mind.I'm still young,But I know desperation. Nothing spellsD-E-S-P-E-R-A-T-Elike the guilty look In a mother's eyesWhen she lacks the money To feed her children. Her own hunger pains Flee from her mind When she hears her little girl's voiceAsking about dinnerOr hears her tummy growl.Growling like everything that's wrong With this world.I'm all too familiar with that look,All too familiar with that word.Desperation isn't a "four letter word"But it should be.

I'm not sure how to wear self confidencebut I do know how many calories are in every food I consumeAnd my heart may be bottomlessbut my make up seems to claim my entire roomAnd my mirror may be shattered with disgust and desperation but at least my closets are full of Gucci, Prada, and Dior And maybe I can be happy with lonely isolation Gives me more time for the materials I adoreAnd you might as well chain me to my shopping bagThat are filled with platinum, silver, and goldCause I will make up for the soul I lackWith the plastics, metals, and materials cold

There is a desperationIn the eyes of a certain fewWho know this is itThis blink of an eye in timeAnd after that, that's itThe eyes tell it allThe stories the storms The winters the secretsThe whiskey the memoriesThose eyes man,They see the end of timeFrom books they know the pastAnd from their soul they have todayTomorrow comes so fastWhen you know the clock ticksTick tock tick tockThis is all we have and we know itA desperation so pureThe desperation to liveTo live and to forget about dying